


fever

by starscry (orphan_account)



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, and also cats there are depictions of cats, and stuff, depictions of sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starscry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The good doctor catches a cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fever

**Author's Note:**

> set some time between episodes seven and eight

It takes three knocks for Victor to respond; a resounding groan and several heavy footsteps lead up to the door being swung unceremoniously into Ethan’s face. The doctor’s venomous glare is fixed on him, but he ignores it.

Instead, Ethan’s gaze lingers on the shorter man’s frail frame, on the blankets wrapped over his shoulders and around his body, arms crossed over them defensively, as if he is ashamed of his current state. He notices the bags beneath the doctor’s eyes that have grown deeper and more bruised, a testament to nights of restlessness and addictive morphine use, providing stark contrast to the sallow skin of his face and the sweat beaded on his forehead. His sharpshooter’s eyes do not miss a single detail of Victor’s current state.

The doctor gives him a quizzical stare, eyebrow quirked at Ethan. “If you plan to gawk at me all night, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” he says, voice cracked and hoarse. Ethan sighs and walks into the small flat, taking in the messiness of it — books strewn everywhere, clothes and medical tools and anatomical encyclopedias littering the room. It surprises him that a man who takes such painstaking care to keep his hands and person clean most of the time can live like this.

"Would I be correct in assuming you’ve come here for more opiates? For your.. lady?" Victor asks, closing the door and padding over to Ethan. 

Ethan begins to speak, but is quickly cut off the doctor.  
“I don’t have any,” Victor murmurs, “ _presently_. I haven’t been able to retrieve any, though I will attempt to get my hands on them soon, if she can wait that long.”  
“‘S all right,” the sharpshooter answers, eyebrows knitted in concern. 

The doctor opens his mouth to say something, but it quickly devolves into a fit of sickness. Hunched over and shaking, violent coughs wrack his short frame for a span of seconds that feels like an eternity to Ethan. The sharpshooter habitually reaches out with both hands to comfortingly rub Victor’s shoulders. When the coughing finally ends, Victor scrubs a hand over his face and lets out a breathy moan, eyes glazed with discomfort. Ethan panics for a moment, almost asking a thousand questions about the doctor’s condition — _is there any blood? how do your lungs feel? are you having difficulty breathing?_ — but stops himself before he oversteps his boundaries.

"C’mon. Let’s get you sitting down," Ethan gently prods, the soft burr of his foreign accent jolting Victor from his reverie of pain. The doctor fixes the other man with a glare, refusing to be led.

"I’d much rather we did not, Mister Chandler," he says, acid lacing his voice. "I believe it best for you to go, now. I’m plenty capable of handling my illness, being a _trained medical professional_ — something, I must add, you are not. I will try to get my hands on some opiates for your friend as soon as possible.” He ushers Ethan out, coughing into his elbow as he opens the door to the crowded, freezing hallway. 

"Doc," Ethan begins, hands on either side of the doorway as he leans further into Victor’s personal space than the doctor would like. "How long have you been cooped up in that place’a yours?"

"Four days," comes the reluctant answer after a moment’s silence.

The sharpshooter snorts derisively. “That settles it. I’m coming over, bright and early tomorrow morning. You need some human company. I’m sure all of the dust from those books’a yours is what got you sick in the first place.”

"I appreciate the sympathy, Mister Chandler, but that won’t be necessary. It’s a simple cold; it will pass once it has run its course. Now," he says, beginning to close the door, "if that is all, I bid you goodnight."

Ethan places a firm hand on the door, stopping Victor from closing it all the way. “I’m serious, doc.” 

Victor sighs exasperatedly. “Do what you must, Mister Chandler,” he says, slamming the door. Ethan shakes his head, smiling ruefully at the doctor’s stubbornness. 

-

On his way to Victor’s flat the next morning, Ethan notices a kitten lurking about the building that houses the doctor’s flat. He creeps toward it, silently as possible, but it springs up and hisses at him as if he is a snarling dog on the attack. The sharpshooter attempts to soothe it, but the small feline is relentless, swiping a paw at him.

Ethan manages to scoop it up despite its persistence, bundling in one arm and rocking it for a bit until it is too tired to fight any longer. He muses about how similar the little cat is to Victor; behind the spitting bravado of both, there is an underlying softness that occasionally rears its head.

The sharpshooter knocks on the door and is received less grudgingly than he was the night before. Victor looks worse, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and blankets wrapped tight around his shivering frame. 

"I brought you a present," Ethan says cheerily.  
"Mm, I hope it’s not some godforsaken American thing," comes the mumbled reply, Victor now laying down on the couch in his sitting room, face pressed into a pillow. He rolls over with a groan to face Ethan, and the sharpshooter promptly deposits the sleeping kitten into the doctor’s blanket-swaddled lap.

Victor gasps, and Ethan cracks a smile, taking it to be a good sign. “I’d say cats are more of an.. international thing,” he says.

"You buffoon!" Victor hisses, rubbing at his eyes. "I’m allergic!"  
He is about to yell at the sharpshooter and request the removal of the feline from his home immediately when he notices the unintentional, soft, puppy-gaze Ethan is giving him. The doctor sighs in defeat and scoops the sleeping cat up, placing it on his chest. 

"I.. suppose that, as long as it doesn’t shed everywhere, it can stay." Upon seeing the excited look that crosses the other man’s face, Victor continues, clarifying, "Temporarily. I can’t have a cat living here; it’ll find some way to knock everything over or mess with my work."

Ethan nods, agreeing, “Temporarily.”

The younger man runs his hands through the kitten’s fur, wondering if the way Ethan has managed to wedge himself so far into Victor’s life, and if even that will be _temporary_.

-

Ethan names the kitten Annie Oakley. The humor of the name is not lost on Victor, who groans inwardly every time he hears the name as the sharpshooter attempts to coax the cat into liking him. He grows fond of it, however — a reminder of a fond memory not too long ago — his enthusiasm at the prospect of learning the finer points of sharpshootery, Ethan’s bright encouragement, that fleeting moment of bonding between the two men that had since grown into a grudging yet budding friendship. 

Annie Oakley takes a liking to the doctor, headbutting her way into his life much like Ethan has. She keeps him comfort through long nights of coughing fits and sweaty, sticky sickness, times when he finds himself wishing for Ethan’s companionship — his brusque American-ness, the lilt of his accent, his gentle hands, the way way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at his own jokes, even if Victor finds them utterly unfunny. Victor wonders when he began longing for the other man’s company, how his flat began to feel more comfortable with the sharpshooter around, over such a seemingly short span of time.

-

When Ethan knocks on the door two days later, he receives no answer. He tries a second knock, a third, a fourth, and a fifth, to no avail. Panicking, the sharpshooter jiggles the lock a bit, taking out a pocketknife and fiddling with it before successfully getting it open. He quickly makes his way to Victor’s room, finding the man huddled under layers of blankets, tears staining his cheeks. 

Ethan rolls him over, receiving no protests. He earns a blank stare and a moan from the other man as he strips the blankets off him, unbuttoning the doctor’s sweat-stained shirt and attempting to hoist the smaller man into a sitting position. 

Victor suddenly doubles over, quickly reaching out to grab a basin beside his bed and retching into it. Ethan rubs comforting circles on the other man’s back, a hand moving to wipe the sweat from the doctor’s forehead as he throws up. 

The doctor wipes his mouth on his now-discarded shirt, turning his face into Ethan’s shoulder as the sharpshooter wraps a gentle arm around him. The taller man smiles sadly, wiping the sweat from Victor’s body with the shirt and slowly leaning him back in the bed. He tucks the covers around the other man and sits beside him, unconsciously running his hands through the doctor’s hair. 

"Well, Doctor Do-Right, I thought you were a _trained medical professional._ It’s been, what — ten days? That big ol’ brain’a yours doesn’t seem to be doing you much good."

Victor, somehow, still has the strength in him to weakly glare at Ethan. “Worse than I thought,” he croaks, voice scratchy from constant bouts of coughing and retching. “It’ll pass.”

Ethan sighs, continuing to stroke Victor’s hair in lieu of answering. He moves his ministrations downward, gently massaging kinks from the doctor’s neck; Victor arches into the touch, giving a soft sigh of content before drifting off to sleep.

-

When Victor awakens, Ethan is still there, arms and body wrapped around the small doctor like a mother wolf wrapped around her cubs. Victor feels strangely at home in the sharpshooter’s arms, cradled there in the same appendages that can so quickly whip out a gun and shoot a bullet dead-on through the brain of an enemy. He allows himself to fall asleep once more, deciding against waking the taller man.

When he awakens later, Ethan is gone. Victor misses him.

-

Two days later, Ethan arrives at Victor’s flat to find the doctor in higher spirits. The space is cleaner, and much to Ethan’s delight, so is his friend. He can see Annie Oakley lazing about on the floor in a patch of sunlight, purring contentedly. 

Ethan places the loaf of now-cold bread he’d purchased by the bayside on the kitchen table, turning to face Victor with an eyebrow raised. “You seem to be feeling much better,” he comments, a grin lighting up his face.

"Yes, well," Victor mumbles, "no thanks to you, Mister Chandler."

" _Ethan_ ," the man corrects gently. "And I believe I did help your sorry ass plenty. My sunny personality is a guaranteed cure to any and all ailments, doc."

"Spare me the self-flattery, Ethan. I don’t think your ego can take much more."

"Hey, now," the sharpshooter whines, "I _did_ get you a cat."

Victor huffs, giving the other man a deadpan look. “Fine, fine. You win. My sickness of two weeks was cured because of the four-legged menace you brought into my home.”

"You love her, admit it."

Victor rolls his eyes and motions toward the leather case upon his table, wiggling his fingers in its direction. “Can you pass me that?” he asks.  
Ethan hands it to him and watches the doctor sit down, taking out a vial of morphine and pouring it into a syringe. The sharpshooter notes the trackmarks that litter Victor’s arm as the younger man screws the leather band tight around his bicep and sticks the needle, injecting oblivion into his veins. 

The next several minutes pass in quiet solitude, Victor sitting with his eyes closed and head lolled as the morphine makes its way through his veins, providing bliss in the form of cheap addiction and a pure sensation. Ethan watches him, studying the doctor’s face, taking in each emotion that flickers across it. 

When Victor finally opens his eyes, he turns his head to look at Ethan, eyes narrowed.

"Ethan Chandler," he says, shaking his head. "Why can’t I rid myself of you?"

Ethan is stunned by the statement, frowning. Victor crosses the threshold, placing a hand on either side of Ethan’s face and tilting it down to meet his gaze. “I mean that in a good way, you _American_ ,” he says, and he steps on his tiptoes to press his lips to the sharpshooter’s.

Ethan raises both eyebrows, pleasantly surprised by the kiss. He deepens it, leaning down to give Victor easier access, and cupping the doctor’s head in his hands. 

After what feels like an eternity, Victor breaks the embrace. Ethan gently sweeps his thumbs over the doctor’s cheekbones, smiling down at the shorter man. “I knew you weren’t just letting me hang around because of my sunny personality,” he says.

Victor opens his mouth to give a sharp retort, but is quickly cut off my Ethan, who preemptively silences him with a quick peck.

"In my medical opinion," the doctor begins slowly, reaching a hand up to curl around the back of the sharpshooter’s neck, "you should not be kissing a man who was sick for nearly a fortnight. However, in my personal opinion—" he brings Ethan’s lips to his once more.

**Author's Note:**

> i kind of shat this out while re-watching the germany game, so i will try to clean any messes up later (mostly because it's 2am right now)!
> 
> feel free to drop by my blog and talk to me about this show and especially about this ship because i know like 0 whole people who watch it and i am always in the mood to talk about it ! ! wow anyway i will literally talk about anything [so here you so](http://kenway.tumblr.com/)


End file.
